


The morbid face of hunger

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Head Auror Harry Potter, Justice, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, Moral Decay, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Philosophical musing on the decaying of the human soul, Politics, Power Dynamics, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Seduction, Sensuality, Sexual Content, Souls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22826338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: When newly appointed Head Auror Harry is summoned to the Minister for Magic's home for a discussion about his new position, the last thing he expects is to be drawn into a series of mind games that lead to uncomfortable revelations about himself.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 11
Kudos: 230





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Should I be starting this when I have other unfinished fics? Absolutely not. Have I anyway? Unfortunately so. 
> 
> This was shamelessly inspired by me watching too much Hannibal whilst revising my politics modules, so expect the absolute worst and you may be pleasantly surprised.

Harry swallowed as he was shown through the entrance halls and antechambers of the house that must have been ancient; all red-brick and dark wood and stale air that pressed itself into Harry’s body and chilled his lungs. Each corridor was dim, the few lights that were turned on were uneven and cast great shadows upon the walls. The only great features that distinguished this property from all the others just like it was the serpentine carvings in every piece of wood, and the piles of books everywhere, clearly dictating that this was a _personal_ residence rather than a professional one. 

Harry glanced around again, maybe, the slow twisting in his stomach that he identified as anticipation, was less to do with the property itself, and more to do with who he was here to see within its walls. Tom Riddle, the Minister for Magic; they’d crossed paths before, though their interactions were rarely _friendly_. Perhaps, it was the insidious aftertaste that Riddle’s particular brand of politics left in his mouth, or, the serpentiform quality to his smile that felt contaminated in its sincerity, but either way, they weren’t friends. 

In fact, prior to this occasion, Harry had never been invited into the sanctums of Riddle’s administration, even less so the sanctuary of his private residence, though maybe his recent promotion to the head of the Aurors had something to do with it. After all, it was well known that Riddle’s political reach was becoming intrusive in places that it shouldn’t, and that, in turn, was shifting every dynamic; in most cases, it made people bend to his will, except Harry wasn’t bending. 

As of just this week, he’d ignored four _urgent_ requests, and seven trivial ones, ranging from innocuous suggestions of how he should be organising his own department, to the far more sinister ideas of what, exactly, the role of the said department should be. Of course, ignoring Riddle’s suggestion didn’t mean he thought the Aurors were perfect, far from it, and the department was in great need of reformation; a renaissance, of sorts, to fit with the mutating threats of a modern world. 

But it was not the place of politics, and even less, Riddle’s politics, to play the central role in that reformation. Harry had never been one for politics particularly, but he’d had enough conversations with Hermione to understand there were foundational principles to any functioning state, and one of them, was keeping politics restricted from influencing the ideas of freedom and justice. 

Hence, he suspected this… meeting, if such an informal approach to consultation could even be called such, wasn’t going to go well. Particularly if the rumours of Riddle’s preferred methods of repartee were true; a habit for pushing right to the parameters of comfort and decency, everyone said, and then pushing a little more. It was a practice that attracted just as much disdain as it did admiration, but Harry was yet to find out which side he would come down on.

In fact, he was yet to even meet his host who’d spectacularly failed to materialise at all. That was until he entered yet another anteroom, though this one was more comparable to a wide corridor with a row of shelves, all of them lined with books, along one side, and the stairs on the other. And, as Harry entered, Riddle was coming down those stairs; he paused, even from the distance he was at, Harry could see the way Riddle’s eyes lingered on him, assessing him.

“Good evening, Harry,” he said eventually, his tone smooth and surprisingly light given they didn’t really know one another. “I apologise for not meeting you at the door, but I had some exigent business that needed attending to.” As he spoke, he continued to walk down the stairs, his hand spread over the bannister, and an expressed on his features that appeared to be faintly amused. 

Harry just nodded, vaguely hearing the excuse of an explanation, but far more transfixed by the shifting angles of the lights and how they highlighted every sharp edge of Riddle’s face and smoothed out the non-existent imperfections. It would be fair to say that Riddle was, at least on the surface, repulsively attractive; the perfect assimilation of features and colour tones that made a face so impeccably balanced, and so faultless that Harry was inclined to think it was a criminal offence. 

If Harry was being entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit that, had they met in different circumstances, he would have been inclined to overlook the distasteful nature of Riddle’s politics for the sake of getting a taste of his mouth. But they hadn’t, and so he was going to have to be professional, and not think about the quality of the tailoring of that crisp, white shirt, and how it clung almost indecently to the tapered lines of Riddle’s waist; nor was he going to think about the flickering of that diamond smile that everyone said was irresistible. Though, at the same time, there was something slippery in that smile; it was a little too artificial, in fact, Riddle’s entire act reeked of superficiality and insincerity as though it was woven into his skin.

“Hello…” Harry found himself sticking out his hand but trailing off with his sentence, his brain struggling to find an address that was not only appropriate but was also palatable on his tongue. ‘Sir’ was the obvious choice, but that held far too many subservient connotations for Harry to be comfortable using it, and yet ‘Minister’ also felt too formal to use when invited into a personal residence, but then again, all other iterations fell on a side that was far too casual to be used without invitation. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, as Harry could say, Riddle sensed the predicament his tongue was in. “Please…” he said, with a smile that was a touch too insouciant given the gravity of the moment. But then, Riddle had a reputation for putting people at unnerving ease in his presence; he, by all accounts, possessed a calmness of being, smooth words blended effortlessly together to make this slick, shining surface of charisma. “…call me, Tom,” he finished, taking Harry’s hand in his own. 

Harry swallowed again. _That_ certainly felt far too casual given the circumstances, there was simply something so _indecent_ about calling the Minister by his own first-name when this was practically the first time that they’d ever been properly introduced to one another. Though apparently, Riddle didn’t seem to share that particular sentiment and just contented himself with speaking Harry’s name as though he’d been saying his whole life. 

“Won’t you follow me?” he said, turning away and heading through a side door before Harry had had any opportunity to voice any protest at all. He still followed though. Even if something under his skin felt increasingly nervous about heading so deep into the spider’s web. It wasn’t that he _feared_ Riddle, necessarily, more that he didn’t trust him in the slightest. Not when there were rumours, however thin and unsubstantiated about how dissidents were treated when Riddle was officially in power, and, of course, Harry’s substantial knowledge of his activities when he had been _outside_ the main political arena. 

It made his skin crawl to think about, and his fingers involuntarily touch at the hilt of his wand, as it rested against his thigh.

Riddle didn’t turn around once as he led the way through several more corridors, before arriving into what must have been the dining room, possibly one of many. It was a relatively small room, intimate, though not cosy. The walls were painted a peacock shade of green and there was what was probably an original-feature fireplace against one wall, on none of the surfaces was there anything remotely _personal_ in nature. And Harry got the impression this was a room that blurred the line between business and pleasure; a place where Riddle could entertain his political favourites, and discuss policy over ornamental cups of coffee, but also it was a place for the formal gathering of genuine friends.

Regardless of whatever Riddle typically used this room for, it was currently a dining room, and Harry took the seat offered to him at the far end of the table. Riddle took the seat opposite. Between them was a modest spread, kept warm by a preservation charm; the sort of meal designed to be picked at, and with even the fussiest diner in mind. There was meat, prepared precariously rare, and fish, and vegetables, and potatoes and rice, all so beautifully designed that either Riddle had exceptionally well-hidden aptitudes or talented house-elves. Harry was inclined to believe the latter simply because Riddle looked as intrigued by what was on the table as he did. 

But, despite the beauty of the spread, set out as though it were an art show, Harry couldn’t stomach eating most of it. There was just something too elaborate but so substanceless in the setup, something too garish in the colours of the garnish, and too _real_ in the limp, staring, eyes of the fish, lying on a bed of greenery and decorative flowers. Of course, there was the shallow exquisiteness to it all: the lusciousness of the verdure, and the vivacity of the possible edible flowers embellishing the dishes, adding colour to the otherwise black ceramic plates, but that was overpowered by the brutality of the carving and the redness of the meat. 

“Are you not hungry, Harry?” Riddle said after a few minutes, apparently noticing that he was simply using his fork to serve himself minimal portions, and then to pick at the food he’d placed onto his plate, pushing it to the edges and examining each mouthful as a fussy child might. 

He looked up at Riddle. “The meat’s a little rare for my taste,” he said carefully, whilst attempting to maintain the civility that had got him this far in life. Emotion, and indeed passion, was all well and good, but in Harry’s experience, it rarely got you what you wanted, and instead waylaid you with a reputation for fervency at the expense of rational thinking. So, he tried to dampen down the passion, press it all into a little bottle and only uncork the lid at times of desperate need. 

“Why don’t you try the fish then?” was Riddle’s unhelpful suggestion. 

Harry glanced down at the staring, dead, thing lying on the central plate, before returning his gaze to Riddle’s face. “I’d rather not,” he said simply. He was contented with eating the more vegetarian options, after all, there was something about these animals that made them feel more _alive_ than anything Harry had eaten before, as though at any moment the fish on the plate might begin to flop about again. It was certainly worlds away from the battered, deep-fried, thing he ate on the occasional Friday night. 

They continued to sit in the same silence that they had entered with, one that Harry could almost describe as pleasant. Riddle apparently content so survey the situation with single, lingering, glances every few minutes. Indeed, the only interruption to the extended quietude was the clinking of metal cutlery against ceramics and the slow chewing of the human jawbone. But, as nice as it was, Harry hadn’t come all this way to sit here in pleasant silence and have a man watch him eat.

So, Harry leaned forward, ignoring the tall glass of red wine in favour of the glass of water right beside it. He took a slow sip, raising the glass up to his mouth and catching a glimpse through the curve of how Riddle watched the contours of his throat when he swallowed. Still in silence, Harry put the glass back down on the tablecloth and allowed his eyes to meet Riddle’s. “Can I ask,” he said, “why, exactly, am I here, or is that redacted?”

It was perhaps a low blow to deal out so soon after beginning to eat, but it was also painfully common within Riddle’s administration that information tended to be redacted, or classified, or available only on a strictly need-to-know basis, and, apparently, Harry did not _need_ to know what happened within the walls, as it were.

To be quite honest, he didn’t always want to know either. 

Except now, of course, at precisely the time when Riddle held the most power _not_ to tell him. Riddle didn’t hold his gaze. “Of course, you can ask,” he said, cutting a slice of rare steak as he spoke, before raising it up to his mouth, “as long as you understand that I am not necessarily at liberty to answer.” He chewed and swallowed, but the slight smile at the corner of his mouth was enough to indicate that he understood just how annoying, and even unprofessional, that answer was. After all, why drag a man out to the middle of nowhere to _not_ tell him why he was there?

“Why am I here then?” said Harry firmly, continuing to push the cap of a mushroom around the rim of his plate. He didn’t look up from the endeavour, but he could feel Riddle’s eyes, as they came to rest, heavy, on his throat, and in such a way that Harry felt a warmth flare up in the bottom of his stomach. He was used to be being stared at, but this was more than that. This was Riddle not just letting his eyes wander, but actively _watching_ him, as any predator might watch its rodent prey; and Harry couldn’t help but want to see his expression. 

With the practised finesse of someone used to chancing glances, Harry stabbed the mushroom right through the head and looked up at Riddle as he placed it on his tongue. Riddle didn’t even try to hide how shamelessly he’d been watching, if anything, he looked with an only increased interest at Harry’s mouth, even as he wetted his own. “You want to discuss that now?” he said. 

“When else would we discuss it?”

“Well,” said Riddle, pausing his meal and placing down his cutlery, “typically one doesn’t even begin to discuss business until after dessert,” he said slowly, taking his time to taste every word before speaking it in a way that was as enviable, as it was a form of synthetic human emotion. A contrived attempt at appearing to be as attractive inside his skin as he was on the outside, and perhaps it would have fooled most people, but Harry had spent his whole life watching people make themselves masks and hiding behind their shining visages. 

Apparently seeing that his explanation of typical etiquette for working dinners, had not significantly moved his guest, Riddle smiled in that serene way that was a surprisingly accurate mimicry of empathy and must have usually made people trip over themselves with delight. “But, of course, I can make an exception for you, Harry,” he said, that same soft sibilance lacing itself between the lettering. “In essence, the matter that I want to discuss is that you now hold sway in one, of just two, institutions over which I myself do not have jurisdiction.” 

“That’s hardly unsurprising,” Harry interrupted, his eyebrows raised, “given political ideology rarely mixes coherently with justice.”

“So the lawyers tell me,” Riddle replied, “but then again, you and your… department are not the definitive representation of _justice_ , are you?” he continued, that slight quirk back at the corner of his mouth; the one that said he’d made an observation to his advantage. “Really, you are simply the middleman enacting policies handed down to you from a higher power, one which – ”

Harry interrupted again. His career had contained enough politics to know when a politician was about to start a polite speech about the great social issues of their time, that was actually their own ideological spiel dressed up to the nines with overly ornate vocabulary. And even if he was less obvious than others Harry had known, Riddle was still a politician at heart, and thus suspectable to their cruder characteristics. 

“What exactly do you want from me, Riddle?” he said, stabbing another mushroom with the same intensity as the last, mortally wounding it before placing it into his mouth, and shifting in his seat as Riddle watched him swallow. 

Riddle dipped his head and smiled, more to himself than to Harry; it was yet another display of artificial humanity. A clever and highly realistic imitation of awkwardness, stemming from embarrassment, but there was just something _off_ in its delivery. Perhaps, it was the glance upward that Riddle gave to gauge the reaction, or, the fact that despite the curving of his mouth, his eyes made no attempt to show any emotion at all. “Please, do call me Tom,” he said, apparently formality was not his brand of forging relationships, “and all I want, Harry, is an understanding.”

Harry continued to watch in silence, waiting. If he was quiet for long enough without cracking, Riddle would get the social hint and explain himself a little more clearly. He had to wait thirty more painful seconds.

“Alright,” Riddle said with a smile that dripped with feigned empathy, “I am, of course, quite aware that the Aurors are not my _personal_ constabulary,” he said, choosing every word with far too much care for it to be an entirely natural process, “which is, in principle, acceptable, after all, I have _other_ enforcement to suit my purposes.” Harry swallowed at that, and momentarily put his fork down. He was quite aware of Riddle’s pseudo-Aurors, _death eaters_ , as they were colloquially known.

Technically, they outranked him. Technically, they shouldn’t exist. But, as long as, Riddle kept them within certain strictures, the law had no opinion on the matter. Even now, when their role was being significantly expanded, and their competences were increasing, the courts were reluctant to engage, and Riddle’s competing force had started to ooze, like a most pervasive species, into the mainstreams of law enforcement. 

“However,” Riddle continued, not bothering to sugar-coat his next words, “now I find myself wanting…” he paused, his tongue running over his mouth as he considered the best words to fit his purpose and still be appetising “…assurance,” he said, “that the Aurors will not try to engage in matters of no concern to them.”

The dissatisfaction at that must have shown on Harry’s face because Riddle paused and appeared to reconsider his precise wording. “Simply put,” he said, “I just want surety that you, and your department, will be staying within the predetermined parameters given to you.”

It was Harry’s turn to smile; to practically laugh in Riddle’s face because it was a _laughable_ suggestion. To say that the very entity charged with investigating wizarding crime was to stay in its place, which Harry took Riddle to mean, it should stay out of his, most likely illicit, business, was frankly ridiculous. “You must know, I can’t guarantee you that,” he said coldly. 

Riddle dipped his head again, though this time he didn’t smile. Instead, he placed his cutlery down beside his plate and reached for his wine. “Maybe, I didn’t make myself clear enough then, Harry,” he said taking a long, slow, swallow, “you will _not_ encroach on territory that is not yours to dispute.” He put the glass back on the table, but his fingers lingered on the stem and his eyes stayed hooked on Harry’s. “You appreciate the criticality of you observing this, don’t you? And the implications if you don’t.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course not,” Riddle replied, “it’s simply an understanding between friends.”

They were not friends. In fact, Harry was doubting that they could ever even be colleagues when the entities at the heart of their relationship would constantly be competing for jurisdiction. But, if Riddle was thinking the same thing, he didn’t voice it, so neither did Harry. 

Rather, they stayed there, observing each other for a moment too long. Riddle slid back to shameless regarding the curve of Harry’s throat with such an intensity that Harry found himself shifting under the attention, moving his chair back and forth, scratching the feet against the wood of the floor. All whilst that same treacherous hotness squirmed through his insides, and his mouth became pitifully dry. He took another drink of his water. 

“May I be candid with you, Harry?” said Riddle suddenly, his movements mimicking Harry’s own as he reached for his glass again, though his tone was, in no way, candid. Rather each syllable was delivered at a calculated pitch, designed to put him at ease, but somehow had the opposite effect. 

“Now seems as good a time as any.” 

Riddle only smiled at the acerbic lilt Harry’s tone had taken on, “I get the distinct impression,” he said, “that you have decided that you don’t like me.”

“Why ever would you think that?” Harry replied, laying on an even thicker layer of sarcasm, and certainly more than what was necessary to get his point across. He wasn’t usually so provocative in his challenges, but there was something about Riddle’s infinite calmness and constructed authenticity that made Harry want to rile him up and make him snap, because _everyone_ had a snapping point, even the Minister of Magic. 

Not to mention, finding out _exactly_ what was underneath that constructed surface would be rewarding all by itself. Was Riddle as slippery as he seemed?

But, apparently, Riddle did not get the rhetorical nature of the question and answered it anyway. “Well for starters,” he said, “you’ve been tense since you got here, as though at any moment you expect me to reveal that I’ve poisoned you.” That time, Riddle really did let whatever superficial charm he’d worked so hard to perfect, drop completely, and there was a certain banality to his tone, even as he spoke of something as salacious as murder, and _that_ made Harry’s breath catch in his throat. 

For Riddle wasn’t one to have his façade collapse around him by accident, nor had Harry been prodding long enough to penetrate it, which meant Riddle wanted him to see that slick surface, and the razor edge of a serpentine smile. But, as quick as it was revealed, it was covered up again, under layers of civility and faked smiles. “I haven’t; poisoned you, that is,” Riddle clarified, “after all, killing you now would be… _impulsive_.”

Harry swallowed hard and his hand drifted down to where his wand still lay against his thigh. The way Riddle said it, made it sound like killing him had been under some serious consideration for a worrying length of time, and the way Riddle glanced up at him, his eyes tracing down Harry’s arm, and almost certainly guessing what his hand was doing, suggested he might still be considering it. 

There was only one way to find out. 

“But my murder still on the cards, I take it,” Harry said, managing to keep his voice steady, and trying to ignore the thrumming of his pulse in his neck; this was far more exciting than his average day at the office.

Riddle just smiled, casually picking up his fork again and skewering another slice of painfully pink meat, he placed it on his tongue, and chewed, and swallowed. “Oh, _everything_ is on the cards, Harry,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter, sorry about that, but I wanted to get something written now as revision season is headed into full swing and I probably won't be updating for a while.

There was a moment’s more silence as Riddle continued to eat. Harry didn’t, he just watched the strong curve of Riddle’s wrist as he angled the knife to cut, and the movements of his lips as his mouth closed around every forkful. There was something undeniably and, deliberately, sensual in the way Riddle acted, like a muse playing coy for the artist, and Harry couldn’t help but watch.

A good twenty seconds later, he was still watching, and his throat was tight and sticky as he observed the grip of Riddle’s fingers and the flex of his knuckles. Such things should not have been as alluring as they were, and they should not have made a warmth creep through him, swallowing up his insides inch by inch like a tide rising against the beach. Riddle took another sip of his wine, his mouth lingering for far too long against the rim.   
“That doesn’t mean though,” he said, placing the glass back down on the tablecloth, “that I don’t want clarification, after all, I’m intrigued now; so, why _do_ you dislike me, Harry?”

As he spoke, the corner of Riddle’s mouth flickered with a smile, and in his gaze was a certain challenge that made Harry shift in his seat. If Riddle employed this particular technique when he conducted all his meetings, it was no wonder that he always got what he wanted; there was just something so compelling in the way he sat there, unmoved, despite Harry’s obvious discomfort, and waiting for an answer like he all the time in the world. 

Harry looked down at his plate, staring at the roasted vegetables, their glaze catching the light and making them shine almost unnaturally. He stayed silent for several minutes, and Riddle made no attempt to alleviate the quietude, clearly, this was something he wanted to know. But it wasn’t exactly something Harry wanted to say; all the coherent sentences that filtered into his brain were highly distasteful, and, as of yet, he lacked the precise linguists that would make them vaguely palatable. After all, outright insulting a man who had so clearly contemplated killing him and was indeed still in two minds about the whole matter, did not sound like the best idea he could have. 

But he also wasn’t about to flatter and praise and sweet-talk Riddle into being nice, nor was he about to concede his own jurisdiction so that Riddle could enact his latest morally reprehensible policy without such inconvenient intrusions as that which the law would bring. So, even if Harry was quite aware of the power of a few compliments for placating people, he wasn’t _that_ sycophantic by nature, and he didn’t intend to start now. 

“I don’t like you…” he started, eventually, at first quiet, but as he raised his head to meet Riddle’s eyes, he became firmer in his tone, “…because your soul is rotten,” he said, spat out almost, each syllable staining his mouth with an unpleasant aftertaste. As he spoke, Riddle tilted his head back just a fraction, the smile spreading out wider in an expression that would have just oozed mendaciousness had it not been coloured with a carefully formulated tinge of authenticity.

But there were gaps, Harry could see them, just the slightest little cracks in Riddle’s visage that could surely be prized apart with the right words. He could dig his fingers in if he tried, and maybe even pull out the sticky, rampant creature that Riddle kept hidden in his soul. He could picture it now, what Riddle would look like on the inside if you stripped back all the decorative accoutrements and deflecting veneer, that contorted, writhing mass that must constitute as his soul; swollen and limp and crawling with necrosis. 

After all, there was only so much that a man could do before he became a monster, and a man with Riddle’s track record must have been more monstrous than most. 

But if Riddle was offended by the observation, he didn’t show it, rather, his mouth simply quirked upward, as though Harry had said something terribly amusing. Nor did he speak for a while, simply taking his time again to consider the exact flavour of his answer, and, as he thought, Riddle’s hand strayed back to his glass, the index fingers running casually along the rim’s curve, before dipping it into the wine and, when he drew it out, crudely making the glass sing. “Well,” he said slowly, “if I am rotten…,” the sound of the controlled screeching of the glass cut through his sentence, “then you’re rotten too, Harry,” he said, suddenly raising his finger to his mouth and stopping all the sound.

Riddle licked that finger clean. 

And Harry had to watch.

He had to listen to the slick sound of sucking that interrupted the perfect silence, even as the intensity of Riddle’s gaze was burning at his eyes. Despite the distance, Harry could see quite clearly how the light glinted through Riddle’s pupils; slashes of gold glimmering and lacerates of red that, had he not seen how casually Riddle played with the line of deception, Harry would have blamed on reflections the wine, but now…

Now those sharp lines he could see every time he caught a flicker of Riddle’s tongue, or, those red threads in his eyes, that twisted, and practically pulsed like some cephalopodic appendages hidden away in his irises, were nothing more than extensions of his inhumanity; clear demonstrations of the distorted nature of his soul. Even from over here, Harry could see that there were entire universes inside those eyes, but each and every one of them was dead and they’d left nothing but desolation behind. Not blackness, not darkness, just empty space. Just big, wide, spaces filled to the brim with nothing. 

A vacuity instead of a human soul. 

Riddle continued to smile at him, his lips shining from where he’d licked them, but it was just skin; merely his mouth curving upward and exposed teeth, there was no materiality behind his eyes, merely pretty patterned hollows where there should have been a thing of substance. But just as before, when Riddle blinked and tilted his neck slightly to the left, all the inhumanity was once again masked under layers of carefully curated courtesy. 

“Do you see something you like, Harry?” he said softly. 

Harry snapped his gaze away from Riddle’s faintly smug expression, his cheeks flushing that embarrassing shade of pink they always did when he knew he was guilty. And he tried his best to ignore the _yes_ that hovered so insidiously on the tip of his tongue; this was really not the time for his libido to remind him how long it had been since someone looked at him like that. He reached for his water. 

“Because I certainly do,” Riddle continued, and the absolute shamelessness of it was a knock to Harry’s lungs that had him practically choking on his water. He swallowed again, harder this time. There was a carefully considered calculation to Riddle’s overtures, that much was obvious from how calmly he sat there, as though he’d had this entire conversation before; acted it out to himself in front of the mirror over and over again, until he’d got every movement perfect. 

“Though, perhaps,” Riddle continued again, “I shouldn’t be too…” he paused, once more searching his mouth for appropriate words with which to make inappropriate sentences, “…hasty,” he eventually settled on, “after all, one should really savour the main course before moving onto dessert.”

Harry was more composed the second time; he, at least, managed to swallow down his water and look up with half a smile. For, even if was the conversation was unashamedly salacious, at least it wasn’t cheap, in fact, it rather gave the impression of being outrageously expensive. The sort of classy innuendo that young wizards and ageing widows would love to have performed just for them. Though Riddle made it look a little too easy, enough that Harry had to wonder whether _this_ was his preferred technique for ministerial scrutiny. 

Harry would also like to think he was more guarded against such attempts at flustering him than most of the others that Riddle undoubtedly trialled his methodology on, though his heart currently appeared to be inclined to disagree, as it was beating a little quicker than he’d like. Not to mention that Harry was becoming painfully aware of the pulse in his neck, and the way the fabric of his collar scratched at his throat. Silently, he debated undoing his tie, and stripping down that layer of formality; it would be tactic of sorts, giving in, just a fraction, to Riddle’s pushing, and he might get arrogant and think he’d won Harry over, and that would result in mistakes. 

On some level, Riddle must have been aware of his internal deliberation because, despite the words so clearly ghosting over his lips, he didn’t make a conscious effort to interrupt Harry’s musing. Instead, he continued his careful scrutiny, letting his eyes linger in all the places he hadn’t yet explored, especially that space where, had Harry not been wearing a shirt, his collarbones would have been visible. 

Harry removed his tie; taking his time to slide the material between his fingers before shoving it unceremoniously in his trouser pocket, after all, restraints, no matter how rudimentary were always advantageous. At that, Riddle’s smile widened, and something in his eyes glinted with more life than Harry had seen throughout their entire interaction thus far, and maybe it was that which made him feel bold, reckless even, but either way, Harry undid the topmost button of his shirt as well.

They watched each other for a while longer. 

“I must say,” Riddle said slowly, breaking apart the silence, though his eyes stayed firmly fixed on the sliver of skin that now exposed the base of Harry’s throat until Harry found himself shifting uncomfortably and scratching at his collar. “I didn’t expect such an easy admission from you of all people, Harry.”

“I think you’ll find that I haven’t admitted to anything,” he replied, “least of all my soul being rotten, and if we’re on the topic,” he said, holding Riddle’s gaze for longer than necessary, “you haven’t exactly defended yourself either.”

Riddle just let his smile continue to lazily spread over the rest of his mouth, as he leant further back in his chair, one hand still resting, flat, on the table, the other slung over the back of the chair in the ultimate display of curated informality; a luxuriant negligence that wouldn’t have suited anyone else. But Riddle wore it well, _too well_ to be quite honest. “I don’t need to defend myself,” he said smoothly but without any further exonerating explanation, “but _you_ , on the other hand, Harry, haven’t really said _anything_ in your defence, and believe me, you need to.”

“I really don’t, Riddle,” he said coldly, trying to force back some semblance of formality because that, clearly, wasn’t Riddle’s preferred hunting ground. To add substance to what was otherwise merely a flimsy statement of opinion, Harry added, “because I’m not the one who’s rotting from the inside out.” He spoke slowly and steadily, all whilst placing his cutlery to sit in the centre of his plate, after all, he doubted he’d be using it again, so he might as well give up the pretence that this was simply a private dinner party. When he looked up again, Riddle had looked away, his attention returned to his wineglass. 

“Aren’t you?” he said, the slight intonation in his tone creating an ersatz compassion that sounded too sticky, and too sweet to be truly sincere. “Because,” he leaned himself forward now, the arm that had been slung over the chair now coming to rest on the table as well, as though he was about to share illicit secrets, “I’ve heard rumours, Harry.”

When Harry didn’t reply, Riddle wet his mouth and continued. “I’ve heard rumours,” he said again, “of the things that are sanctioned to happen under your leadership, and I’ve heard rumours of the methodology employed to dispense your version justice.” Riddle paused, probably to gauge a reaction, but Harry kept his face as blank as possible. In his continued silence, Riddle began to talk again. “I would go as far as to say,” he said, “that I think you’re beginning to confuse your role as law _enforcement_ , with being the law _itself_ , am I correct with that assertion?”

Harry gritted his teeth, grinding his molars together. This was exactly why Riddle’s political reach into what were fundamentally administrative channels, was becoming… problematic. He’d never been an Auror, in fact, Riddle had never, as far as he was aware, engaged in any practical application of his policies. He didn’t know what it was like, out there, in the field, standing face to face with moral destitution, and yet he still sat there with a smile that said it knew too much and claimed to have the moralistic high ground. 

It was sickening. 

“And, I suppose that you yourself, are immune to such a blurring of jurisdictions, aren’t you?” Harry said coldly. 

Riddle just laughed. “Of course, I am,” he said, each syllable coloured with a warmth that bordered on arrogance. “Because,” he continued, “unlike you, Harry, I possess politically mandated power to do _whatever_ I want.” As he spoke, Riddle’s fingers fiddled with the base of his glass and Harry watched them, just to distract himself from Riddle’s face. 

“You’d like that sort of influence, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” Harry said, “I don’t think I would.” Though, even as he said it, there was a flicker of doubt in the corner of his brain, although much of it was swept away by the continuing throb of his heart against the wall of his ribs, and the sudden, awful, dryness of his throat, and how his palms felt uncomfortably hot. In fact, his entire body felt too hot, as though there was magma spreading through his veins. 

“Oh please, Harry,” Riddle said, leaning back again, but not before taking another sip from his glass, this time, draining it; he placed I back down with a soft thud. “You must recognise _that_ about yourself, at the very least,” he said, “after all, it doesn’t matter, in my experience, who you are; everyone finds power so… _intoxicating_ to be around.” He smiled, showing the tip of his talented tongue that made everything sound so deliciously dark, like black chocolate just poured down Harry’s throat, making inclined to listen, even when he knew he shouldn’t. 

Riddle exhaled, and ran that tongue over his mouth, slowly licking his lips, “and if I’m being perfectly honest,” he said, raising his eyes to meet Harry’s own, “I rather want to get you intoxicated, Harry.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uni strikes left me with a surprising amount of time, hence this horrifically long chapter (sorry about that), but this update will _actually_ be the last one for a bit, so I hope it's alright.

He looked across the table at Riddle, knowing that there must have been a pinkish hue affecting his skin. It was almost disconcerting being… _flirted_ with quite so candidly; most people who approached him were the personification of nerves, even the most confident ones shrinking before someone whose reputation preceded them. But not Riddle, he treated Harry, not as a saint, nor a piece of decorative glassware, but as something smaller, and less worthy than himself. An intellectual curiosity of sorts, and for some reason that made Harry’s stomach curl up into this tight little knot. 

Harry swallowed and refocussed his gaze, trying to make his brain work again, and figure out exactly what his next move should be. The most obvious move was, of course, to play along with a coquettish tone of his own, one that would get Riddle putting a little too much of himself into each conversation. Harry swallowed again, “I thought it was inappropriate to talk about dessert before finishing the main course,” he said firmly, one hand still gripping at his wand, and the other pressing into the table; the softness of the white cloth under the pads of his fingers such a contrast to the hardness of the wood. 

Riddle’s smile spread wider again. “I did say that, didn’t I?” he murmured, not taking his eyes off of him. “Well, if that’s what you’d prefer, then we can talk about my other curiosity instead,” he said, his tone changing immediately into something far more… decent. 

“And what would that be?” Harry said, trying not to sound suspicious, as he reached for his water again. He sipped it slowly, trying to savour each drop, unwilling to have to ask Riddle to refill his glass, especially when there was no obvious water source anywhere in this room. 

“Illusions, reality and identity,” Riddle said, interrupting his thoughts, though the announcement of his own thoughts sound rather like how a lecturer might announce their new module title. But then again, maybe Riddle’s thoughts were more academic than Harry was prepared to give him credit for; most politicians were just pseudo-academics, their ideology becoming their study, except they rarely studied it, and instead, chose to espouse whatever view would keep them in power the longest. It was an undeniably sad fact that inauthenticity was the newest political currency, and by that assessment, the current administration was richer than it should ever be allowed to be. 

“Particularly,” Riddle continued, “ _your_ identity, Harry, and how you hide it from reality behind an illusion of morality.”

Without explicitly meaning to, Harry clenched his jaw again, a glare settling back onto his features. He put down the glass of water, “I think you’ll find that know who I am, Riddle,” he said, as firmly and coldly as he could manage, “and, unlike _you_ , I don’t hide my real face behind a pseudonym.”

He expected a reaction to that, or at the very least, an acknowledgement that the secrecy of Riddle’s previous occupation was compromised. Of course, Harry couldn’t _prove_ anything, least of all, Riddle’s connection to, and indeed leadership of, those political fringe groups that stirred up the mud, and made murky the otherwise crystalline underbelly of the moral world. Not that their names were ever spoken, all they ever left behind was another addition to their resumes, and they made for a stomach-churning read that even the most seasoned Auror would stutter through.

But instead of violent reaction, Riddle merely quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t you?” he said, glossing over his own nefarious connections as though they were merely inconveniences and not deep-seated character flaws, that should never have got him elected into power in the first place. 

“No,” Harry said frostily, “I don’t.”

Riddle observed him then, leaning his head to the side as he did so, rather like he was deeply considering the answer; examining it from every angle available as a jeweller might examine a new stone, looking carefully at the cut and carat, before moving on to the colour and clarity. “No?” he repeated back eventually. Harry watched his hand that was still resting on the table, though now the fingers were tapping every so slightly. Just small, indistinct movements, as though he was trying to reignite a tune that had resigned itself to a distant memory. 

“But, Harry,” Riddle said, still in that musing tone, as though this were all merely a university exercise, performed in the safety of the academic sphere, “you hide more than anyone else I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” He looked towards Harry again, the glaze of his eyes glinting, “of course,” he continued, “I won’t insult your intelligence and pretend that all my friends are palatable to your _moral_ taste,” he said, “but they _are_ , for all their faults, honest.”

He smiled. “They have no qualms about admitting what they are.” As he spoke, Riddle suddenly stood up, the chair scraping over the wood of the floorboards as he did so; the sound was loud and gravelly, and almost seemed to echo off the walls. But Riddle didn’t seem to notice, perhaps he was used to it, or perhaps it was a facet of his arrogance; unnerving people being another outlet for that sculpted smile of someone who thinks they can predict the next move of their opponent. Into it was stitched a confidence and a conviction that he was right, and that he always would be, and it was unbearable to see. 

For a moment, Riddle stayed just standing, both hands flat against the table; his shadow, long and dark, casting out over the food, though it didn’t quite reach Harry’s own plate. But then he was picking up his glass with an elegant swipe of his hand, and stepping back, away from the table and heading over to the other side of the room. 

Despite the dimness of the side, Harry could still see the small cabinet that Riddle approached. It was thin but tall and made of dark wood; he gripped the hilt of his wand harder. He hadn’t yet seen any evidence of Riddle’s own wand, certainly, it wasn’t anywhere _obvious_ on his person, and given that he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and that his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, he didn’t have it concealed either. 

But that just made Harry more suspicious.

“You know, Harry,” said Riddle, unclicking what sounded like a rudimentary flip lock, “unlike with my friends, when I’m near you I get the impression of a marked feeling of shame.” Riddle had his head bowed and his back to Harry, which was almost deliberately neglectful, as though he was challenging him to try something violent and impetuous that would have consequences for both of them. But Harry didn’t react, after all, this wasn’t the first time that a petty reprobate had tried to wind him up.

Instead, he watched how Riddle’s hands busied themselves with opening the cabinet for whatever nefarious purpose, and his head raised back up so that he was directly facing the wall. “I’m in the habit of making hypotheses for phenomena I don’t yet understand,” Riddle continued, still speaking to wall though he acted like he was speaking to Harry’s face, “my hypothesis for you, for instance, would be that you’re so ashamed of what you are inside your skin, that you try and conceal it.”

Harry bristled; he couldn’t help it, not when Riddle had the audacity to think that he could read the morality of his soul after just one, brief, interaction. Especially, when all accounts of Riddle suggested he didn’t exactly possess the most extensive breadth of emotional intelligence possible for a human. If anything, he sat as far to the other end of the scale as it was possible to whilst still maintaining cognitive capacities. But Harry didn’t say anything, not yet, he’d just sit here, grinding his teeth and gripping his wand until the optimum moment revealed itself.

So, Riddle continued his musings, oblivious to the ticking moments that counted towards his fate. “I would almost say…,” he said, as he revealed his current preoccupation to at least be less ominous than Harry had prepared for. Riddle was simply passing his fingers over a variety of bottles and decanters of what Harry assumed to be alcohol, his nails clinking on the glass as he considered which one to re-fill his glass with. “…that you’ve made yourself a moral cloak, Harry,” Riddle continued, “and you’ve wrapped yourself up so tight that even you can’t see what’s happening underneath.” 

His fingers paused their tapping and Harry heard him pick up a bottle. “But you’re still a little tense, aren’t you?” Riddle said conversationally, “worried, that someone is going to see what you’ve become, to keep with the metaphor, underneath the cloak.” He paused, raising his right hand and pouring from what looked like a dark, almost black, bottle. “Though I do think,” Riddle said, apparently unmoved by his guest’s enduring silence, “that a small part of you has started to realise what you’re becoming, but you’re just too scared to admit it, even to yourself.”

“Are you calling me a coward?”

Riddle dipped his head forward again and hummed a response. He put down the bottle with a light thud of glass meeting wood, before turning back, glass in hand, to properly face Harry. Now that he could see him fully, Harry took in his appearance again, and it was more casual than before; Riddle leaning idly against the cabinet, his elbows resting on the wood and his body slanted out at such an angle that it felt provocative for reasons Harry couldn’t identify. Like that, he was swathed in the shadows, with another half-filled glass of red wine in his hand, and there was something magnetically mysterious in his being. And, for the first time, Harry could see why this man, despite the public position that he occupied and all the conspicuousness that came with it, was still considered to be enigmatic and inexplicable. 

“Of all the parts,” Riddle said, looking up suddenly and catching him staring, “of that sentence to take issue with, Harry, I did not expect your cowardice to take the limelight.” He paused for a moment, “though,” he continued, his head tilting to the side as it had done before, “perhaps, I was crude in my wording. Maybe it's not the fact you lack the courage to admit what you are,” he paused again, though this time it was more for dramatic effect than for any other, more compelling, reason, “maybe, it’s merely that you’re still in the puissant state of denial?” 

“Maybe it’s the fact that you’re delusional, Riddle,” said Harry carefully and almost slowly, trying to keep his tone reassuringly steady, as though the information would result in a violent realisation on Riddle’s part, one that Harry would become the victim of. “Losing touch with life, as you try to rewrite reality, instead of simply admitting that _you’re_ the problem, not me,” he continued, keeping his eyes fixed on Riddle’s own, and searching them fruitlessly for a response. 

But Riddle laughed at him, his head tipping back and exposing the long stretch of his neck. “Oh, Harry,” he said, with a surprising level of warmth for someone who’d just been called delusional, “I’m sure such an unscrupulous interview technique turns those… lesser-minded malefactors into putty in your hands,” he said, “but please…” his tone suddenly turning serious, “refrain from using it on me.” 

Riddle continued to stretch his neck, the hand that was not holding his wineglass coming up to press at the nape and in the process, catch his thumb over the sliver of exposed skin at his throat. Harry swallowed at that, even as he shamelessly watched, he was unwilling to admit how interested he would be in peeling back the edges of Riddle’s shirt and getting a proper look at what was underneath. When Riddle caught Harry staring again, he still didn’t comment, he only smiled again, “besides,” he said, continuing the conversation, “I think you’ll find me to be… less easily manipulated.”

Harry bit back a sarcastic comment. 

After all, it was criminals like Riddle, the former professionals: businessmen and politicians and lawyers, who always thought they were cleverer than they really were. They were the sort to sit there in the interrogation room, in their fancy suits and dress robes, with their expensive solicitors, and just smirk in the face of justice. Most were just the typically white-collar criminal whose own arrogance makes them unbearable, but some were the perpetrators of crimes violent in nature, and it was a handful of _those_ men, who had nothing behind their eyes. 

They were just cardboard cut-outs of real people. 

Projections of emotions onto human flesh, and they assumed everyone else was too stupid to see through the mask they’d made for themselves. But _he_ could see. Harry could see the casualness in Riddle’s stance, and he could see the artificial curation of it; how he stood as a human might, whilst having no humanity under his skin. 

It was equal parts appalling and absolutely fascinating.

“You’re being awfully quiet, all of a sudden, Harry,” Riddle said, interrupting his thoughts once again, “I thought you’d have hundreds of excuses lined up. Or is silence your preferred defence?” Riddle asked though he didn’t stay and dwell on the point for long. “Not that it matters,” he said, “I’m happy to talk of other things, like that adorable namesake you earned yourself so early in your career, and how you now rely on it to hide the unpalatable creases of your morality.”

“I’m not hiding.” 

Riddle raised an eyebrow. “Please, Harry, lying is not a good look, and lying poorly, even less so.” He paused before adding, “especially not for ‘The Boy Who Lived.’” As he spoke, Riddle glanced over at him with one of those smiles that said he knew a lot more than he was sharing; but he continued to talk before Harry had to opportunity to work out exactly what it was that he was concealing. “That adorable sobriquet that was borne from over-zealous storytelling, and a poor collective memory.”

He paused again to take a long drink from his glass. “But I must say,” he said, “I’m impressed with it; such an immaculate and complex mask would have most people intimated, but you navigate it all with such a practised _ease_.” The way he said it was so casual and conversation that you’d almost miss the insult that was laced so delicately between the lettering. 

“As I said before,” Harry said, slipping into the overly formal language he always did when he was trying to maintain professionalism, even though, right now, he would have gladly hexed Riddle until he needed urgent medical attention. “I think you’re mistaken; turning me into some two-faced manifestation that’s really just a reflection of yourself.”

Riddle smiled, leaning further back onto the cabinet and taking another sip from his wineglass. As he did so, the wine caught the light and a red glitter dispersed itself across the room, speckling Riddle’s face with flecks of crimson that looked, from this angle, like blood spatters. Though if Riddle knew the comparison, he didn’t hide from it, if anything, he revelled in the knowledge; the same smile slashed over his mouth and the same laxity in his limbs, the kind only found in people who are entirely at ease with who they are. 

“With a Muggle background such as your own,” Riddle said, once again ignoring Harry’s accusations in favour of his own opinions, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether Riddle conducted himself in a similar in government; simply ignoring those views that didn’t assimilate well with his own. “I imagine you are, at least faintly, familiar with Roman Mythology.” It wasn’t quite a question, but Riddle still paused and looked over at him, waiting for some sort of affirmation. Harry gave him the smallest nod.

“Well,” he said, staring down into his glass, instead of at Harry’s face, “there’s the Roman Deity, Janus, the God of duality and transition, among other things.” Harry swallowed, there was nothing _untoward_ in what Riddle was saying, but somehow the discussion of gods made his nervous all the same. “Of course, you must understand that I’m not a religious man, Harry, nor do I claim to be, nevertheless, I’ll be the first to admit you’re a wonderful embodiment of such a God.”

Harry swallowed again, harder this time, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. By any usual standards being called a god of any sort would have been the highest of compliments but Riddle somehow managed to turn even the greatest praise, into something deeply unsettling. Creating a slithering feeling in Harry’s stomach, as though it were pit full of snakes, all slinking over each other, and making his insides squirm. 

“To keep with analogy,” Riddle said, “Janus has two faces, and you do too, Harry. Now ‘The Boy Who Lived’, he’s your past, one of your faces, but I am far more inclined to explore the _other_ one.” He paused, once again for dramatic effect, and Harry hated that his heart picked up a little in the silent anticipation that followed. “The one that you never show to people,” Riddle said, his tone crisp but still almost warm on Harry’s skin, “but I would hazard a guess is becoming more _prominent_ every day.”

“As interesting as your assessment of Muggle Mythology is,” Harry said stiffly, “I really can’t see how that relates to me,” he said, shifting his chair back, the legs scraping against the wood in much the same way as Riddle had done, just so that he could have a better look at him. “Especially,” Harry continued, “when you yourself are such a prime example; the moral incarnation of Jekyll and Hyde, I would say.”

For a moment, Riddle didn’t say anything, and Harry had to briefly wonder whether he got the reference. Everyone knew, however much Riddle played it down, that he was a half-blood and had been raised alongside Muggles, not to mention, his ridiculously large collection of books, all of which would suggest that he should know such a reference. Harry’s suspicions were confirmed when Riddle spoke again. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “that is where my example falls apart.” Riddle shifted himself against the cabinet, “for, you see, both your Jekyll and Hyde, and my Janus God are perfect dualities; two people contained within one soul, but that’s not you and me, is it, Harry?” He paused to give Harry a glittery, glinting smile that showed too many teeth.

“We’re something _far_ more interesting.”

Harry tensed, pressing his feet down into the floor harder than before, one of his hand surreptitiously resting on his thigh, the other half-concealed down the side, still holding his wand. There was a promise of an explanation behind Riddle’s words, but it was one that Harry was not particularly willing to hear. After all, anyone should be concerned when they find themselves put so effortlessly into the same category as a man devoid of any emotional substance and whose moral core was bitten with rot. 

“What I mean to say,” said Riddle, his gaze intense on Harry’s cheek, almost burning it as he had done before though with a far different incentive. “Is that we’re not two people, but rather one person and one performance; we hide who we are behind layer after layer of embellishment, and nobody sees what we really are, do they, Harry?”

Harry stayed silent. He avoided Riddle’s eyes, and instead focussed his gaze on the table, watching the wilting leaves and dying flowers that lay scattered amongst the dishes. There was a putrefaction here, and it was ingrained into everything inside this house; just a decay that emanated from Riddle himself and was too deep-set to ever be removed. What made it worse as well, was that Harry knew _exactly_ what Riddle was trying to do because he’d seen people do it before; he’d seen them strip back a criminal’s entire identity and rebuild it in the image that they wanted. An awareness of the technique should have negated its value, but somehow Harry just felt like he was sinking further into it, being enveloped in the thick, oily, sludge that constituted Riddle’s personality. 

After all, Riddle was so very persuasive.

Riddle was still watching him, even if Harry wasn’t watching back. The presence of his eyes was undeniable, like a god’s gaze in church or temple or any other religious sight. He watched from above, anticipating the next move of those beneath him and playing with their fates for his own amusement. Before Harry could find a way to stem the sight, Riddle was speaking again. “All they see,” he said, “is that pretty veneer, which for you, is moral perfection; your entire identity is built on these foundations of being inherently good, but you what I think, Harry?” he said, soft and sweet, “I think those foundations are rotten, and I think your desperate to stop anyone finding out that the morality that made you is gone.”

Harry swallowed, but still chanced a glance at Riddle’s face. He was drinking from his glass again, the colour of the wine reflecting off his skin and his eyes and framing everything in a blended, bloody, red that should not have been as beautiful as it was to see. Harry was still watching when Riddle put the glass down, still a quarter full, and smiled at him. “You must be getting so tired of playing pretend, Harry,” he said. 

“I don’t play pretend,” he said weakly, but the words felt limp on his tongue, born dead on his lips and leaving behind a horrid aftertaste that worked its way into every corner of his mouth. 

Riddle dipped his head again, and laughed softly to himself, “no, of course not, you _actually_ believe it, don’t you?” he said, still leaning, unconcernedly, against the cabinet. His tone sounded mocking, but there was a sincerity in his eyes. “You’ve convinced yourself that there’s nothing wrong with you, that you’ve always been this way,” Riddle said, with such a delicate softness to his tone. “Can you see then,” he continued, though his tone switched gears into a far more acerbic iteration, “why I think it’s impertinent of you to tell me that _I’m_ the one who’s rotten to the core; or was that a deliberate deflection?”

Harry looked down at his lap, staying silent even when there was a rising ire spreading through his blood. He continued to grit his teeth, glaring at his legs, and at the sharp edge of the table, smoothed down by the white cloth. Quite uncomfortably, Harry also found himself staring down at his hands; looking for lines and callouses that would tell him that man who sat in his chair was the same man he’d always been. They certainly _looked_ the same superficially; there were still the scars he’d always had, and the natural imperfections of his skin; the same flexing of the muscles and the tendons, the same curve of his nails, and the same sharpness to the bones in his wrists. 

Had he really changed?

“Well, you’re no better,” Harry heard himself saying, and though it barely made sense he still wanted it to be spoken in a tone that was hard and sharp, but he already knew that it hadn’t; rather it sounded distant, as though it was coming out of someone else’s mouth, and he was simply hearing it from somewhere far away. 

“Oh, Harry, I never pretended that I was _better_ ,” Riddle said, pushing himself away from the cabinet, and as he did so, dropping the veil of morality fully for the first time. Underneath was an image that made Harry catch his breath. There was nothing explicitly different and if you looked at a before and after photograph side by side, the difference would have been negligible. But there was still something in Riddle’s physicality that changed immensely; this was a glimpse of what power looked like when it wasn’t obstructed by such inconveniences as morality. 

And it was stunning. 

“You, on the other hand,” Riddle continued, “well… you still claim to be that boy, the one who was a paragon of morality.” Though Harry was getting strangely distracted by the clicking sound of Riddle’s shoes against the wooden floor as he walked slowly towards him. “You _still_ pretend to be the only one we should trust with the dispensation of our justice.”

Riddle stopped a couple of feet from Harry’s chair, and his tone dipped again into something lower and warmer like molten amber, but still as unnerving as before. “I have to wonder,” he said, scarcely loud enough for Harry to hear, “what would people think of you if they knew what you really were, Harry?” 

Riddle took another step forward, and he was close enough now that Harry could feel the heat of his skin against his own. “After all, it must be hard to keep your cool sometimes,” Riddle murmured, taking another step closer and letting his shadow envelope Harry, “and I bet you’ve had a couple of close calls; those moments of anger and frustration where you’ve wanted to do monstrous things.” Harry heard, rather than saw the way that Riddle exhaled as though he were picturing the moment, formulating it inside his head; what he thought it would look like when Harry’s patience was pushed right to the limit. He sounded as though he liked what he imagined. 

Despite still feigning disinterest in actually touching him, Riddle moved forward again, and Harry could feel the heavy weight of his eyes resting on his throat, before dipping down to his hands. “I bet you’d like your wand…” Riddle said, making Harry grip it tighter, “…up against their throat, and something _unforgivable_ on your tongue.”

Harry regained himself enough to interrupt with an administrative objection. “We don’t use the Unforgiveables anymore, Riddle,” he said stiffly, “you know that as well as I do.” It was the full truth that time, no one had uttered anything _truly_ unforgivable in the halls of the Auror department for a good number of years now, and that wasn’t about to change any time soon.

“Yes, because you have far more… tailored methods to get your marque of justice out of someone’s throat, don’t you?” Riddle said, the smoothness of the tone suggesting he had a rather _specific_ instance in mind. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said, staying still in his chair, and raising his chin and sticking with the mantra they rammed down your throat at the beginning of Auror training: deny and deny and deny, and if that didn’t work, divert attention to far less judgement-worthy areas of your being. They taught that technique for a reason and that was because it worked well, most interrogators getting bored of waiting for the answer to appear that they moved on. But Riddle wasn’t the type to move on whilst unfinished business sat around.

“Oh, I think you do,” Riddle said, licking his lips, “for instance, those rumours I mentioned; the ones that emphasised how _cruel_ you can be, Harry, when there’s something you want within your grasp.” Harry swallowed, Riddle was just a shadow on the edge of his periphery; dark and venomous, a snake about to strike, “because you’ll do _whatever_ it takes to get what you want, won’t you, Harry?” he murmured, the edges of each letter catching on his tongue and making Harry twist his fingers harder into the material of his trousers. 

“As long as the goal is altruistic, you feel you can justify the means; and I must say…,” Riddle had stopped moving and was now standing behind him, a little to the left, completely out of Harry’s line of sight unless he turned, and he didn’t want to admit he was intrigued enough to do that. So, he stayed, facing the empty chair opposite him and listening to the sounds of Riddle breathing. “…I like that mentality, Harry,” Riddle murmured. 

Harry’s heart thrummed at those words, banged in his chest like the unruliest of drummers had taken control. He could practically feel the silken spiderwebs that Riddle was spinning him up in, as well as the feeling the undeniable waves of satisfaction as Harry let him do it; because he was merely _letting_ him, at least, Harry hoped he was. Though a small, small part of knew he only had his fingertips gripping onto this conversation, and the slightest slip would have him hanging in the void with no defences at all. 

“Why did you ask me here, Riddle?” he said, firmly, in some attempt to re-grasp the control of the room that was hastily slipping, like sand through an hourglass, through his fingers. Riddle didn’t move from his place out of sight, so Harry continued. “Because if it was _actually_ to kill me,” he said, “I’d prefer if you stopped your monologuing and just tried to get on with it.” There was a satisfying bite to each word and when strung together into a sentence it had quite the caustic lilt. 

But once again, Riddle laughed; this time soft, and almost musically, the sound as smooth and sweet as warm honey. “As I said before…,” he said, stepping closer now so that Harry could feel the warmth of his hand as it skimmed over the back of his neck. He should have tensed or flinched or done something, but he didn’t. “…that would be impulsive.” By the time Riddle had finished speaking those short words, he was standing right behind Harry’s seat, his hand resting lightly on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry should shrug him off, but he found himself strangely disinclined to do so. 

“After all, you might be a pest,” said Riddle carefully, the press of his hand increasing and the tips of his fingers starting to dig, despite the fabric of Harry’s shirt, into the hollow of his collarbone; his nails pushing into the softer skin and undoubtedly leaving little red marks behind. “But so is a caterpillar,” Riddle continued, “and you wouldn’t kill a caterpillar now, would you?”

“Why not?” Harry asked before he was able to stop himself. Though he did manage not to turn around, instead, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall opposite wall, watching the edge of his reflection in a mirror hanging there; its frame smooth, and its surface glassy and clear. Riddle had kept himself away from the reflection earlier but now, in its reproduction of reality, Harry could see the outline of his silhouette. The white of his shirt at once a crisp contrast and a divine complement to the colour of the walls, and the paleness of his hand more obvious against the charcoal grey of Harry’s own suit. 

So too could he see the expression on Riddle’s face, that curled smile, which made Harry’s stomach fizz with a feeling he didn’t particularly want to acknowledge. But he knew it was the same warm pressing on his insides that he’d felt before when Riddle had let his smile burn into his neck. And, even if Harry was unwilling to properly acknowledge it, he could deny the atmosphere that this room had taken on in the last few minutes. It had crept is an uninvited guest that now made itself at home; rich and potent in the air, it made Harry want to do exhilarating, impulsive things like getting Riddle’s tongue between his teeth.

Fortunately, or perhaps, unfortunately, Riddle replied to his question and in doing so staved off the impulse for a while longer. “Because, Harry, a caterpillar is yet to fulfil its transmutation,” he said still softly, still with his hands curling Harry’s bones, “and if given time, it will become _useful_.” The emphasis of the final syllables made Harry shiver as something hot and electric slithered its way down his spine and spread itself around his stomach; a pressing weight against his pelvis that was more arousing than he cared to admit. 

He exhaled more sharply than he meant to, before raising his eyes to meet Riddle’s own in the reflection across the room. “Am I your caterpillar?” he asked slowly, trying to savour each word just as Riddle did, trying to taste it on the tip of his tongue, and relishing in the effect that it had on Riddle. How his grip tightened, and his breathing caught in the back of his throat, and his eyes seemed to dip themselves into a new shade of black chocolate. 

“Oh no, Harry,” Riddle murmured, his fingers of his other hand, brushing over the back of his neck before sliding down the shoulder, “as I said before, it’s already _inside_ you, so you’re more of a… chrysalis, as it were.” 

The way Riddle said that was sickeningly seductive, almost purring out the syllables, and it made Harry’s stomach turn over, even though it shouldn’t have. As slowly and controlled as he could manage, Harry turned his head to look up at Riddle.  
“And what exactly _is_ inside of me, Riddle,” he said with his own provocative lilt sticking to the letters, and his left hand toying with the fork that remained beside his plate. Briefly, he wondered whether it would be worth the effort of stabbing Riddle with it. Probably not. The complexity of the aftermath wouldn’t have been worth the short-term satisfaction of committing the act, however much his hands itched to do it.

Rather, he’d have to be far more subtle. A fabricated attack, for instance, and in the flurry of panic a misfired curse, or, even better a direct hit from a wand that wasn’t his own. The possibilities for murder, manslaughter and even accidental death were extensive if you thought about it. 

But before he could consider it any further, Riddle’s left hand slid off of his shoulder and instead held his upper arm, squeezing it tightly whilst he smiled. In the mirror’s reflection, Riddle held his gaze for a while, fingers still closed around his arm, the pads digging in, and no doubt gauging, the muscle mass. 

Then he spoke. “The thing inside you, Harry, is the rot,” he murmured, “and the hunger that accompanies it.” The words were softly spoken, but they sounded loud and hypnotic in the silent room. “I bet you can feel it,” Riddle continued, never letting his eyes leave Harry’s, “how it _aches_ inside you, how it burns; how you’re _always_ aware of it, but sometimes it comes up to the surface, and makes you want to do monstrous things, doesn’t it, Harry?”

Harry swallowed, a lump already forming in his throat. “No, Riddle,” he said, “I don’t _feel_ any of that.” Although he spoke confident words, his voice quivered, shaking as an archer who has stood with their arms stretched out for too long might. And there was the memory, the one that Harry tried to push back, the one from a week ago, when he standing in the interrogation room, alone aside their latest capture. The room had been the same as it always was, stark grey walls and a single chair for each of them and a table. Harry hadn’t sat down. 

These days it was rare to get involved with anything other than policy and paperwork, but every so often a special case same along, one which required the highest authority available to be brought against it. This one was particularly… unique. With alleged crimes that were numerous and appalling, new types of horrific that had turned even Harry’s stomach. But that wasn’t the most sickening thing about him, rather, that award went to the way he’d smiled, and the way he’d laughed, and the way he’d known that they had nothing concrete on him.

It had made Harry want to hurt him. And not just within the bounds of the law; he didn’t want to use ‘reasonable force,’ he wanted to slam that man’s head into the table again and again and again. He wanted to deploy spells he’d learnt but never been allowed to use; he wanted to watch that man bleed, watch him choke on his own blood, watch him die and smile at his final breath. He’d stood there, in the blank room and thought about doing all that to the smug man who thought moral reprimand would never apply to him.

The same crawling feeling was on him now; a deep, violent ache right down in his bones; rather like a child who realises they can burn ants with a magnifying glass, it was the ache for power. A throbbing for control over the life and death of men and women; it was the simple desire to play at being god, and to annihilate his own creations because their image was an uncomfortable reflection of himself. 

“You know,” Riddle murmured, leaning down so that his mouth aligned with Harry’s ear, and grazed over the skin with every word, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps down his neck, “killing someone feels better than most people could ever imagine.” He paused to lick his lips, the heat of his tongue making Harry shiver, “but I think you _already_ knew that, didn’t you, Harry?”

Harry exhaled, his jaw tightening, and his hands clenching, one just into his own palm, the other wrapped around his wand hard enough to make the knuckles white. And trying, trying so hard not to think of the moment that death had ceased to become this strange, foreign, thing that existed to other people, became actuality in his own world. It hadn’t been his fault. 

Not the first time. 

“And you know,” Riddle continued, softer now, syrupier, with more emphasis on each word individually, “that it becomes a thought that consumes you; just an itch under your skin that aches for you to do it again.” He paused, clicking his tongue against his ear in such a way that it sent another, almost painful, shiver down Harry’s spine, “and you _want_ to do it again, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry closed his eyes, unable to stop how his skin prickled with every word that Riddle spoke, almost as though there were thorns growing out of his neck and catching the musical words like they were dew drops. Riddle did not stop talking though, if anything, he relished having a captive audience. “I think,” he said, “that you want to create a just society unlike the one that you have endured, don’t you?” he continued, “but to do that, you first have to get rid of all the bad that’s clogging up this world.”

Subconsciously, Harry continued to grip at his wand, his fingers hurting with the pressure, and his molars feeling a similar way as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, grinding his back teeth together. And still, Riddle continued pushing. “That’s where I come in, isn’t it?” he said, “but do reveal, am I the bad that you want to get rid of, or, have I simply seen too much of what you are?”

Harry wanted to answer that, to tell Riddle that he was somehow both. The epitome of malevolence that was so damaging to politics and society and justice alike, and that the world would frankly be much better without him in it. But he was also the one who’d managed to catch a glimpse of something he shouldn’t have, and the knowledge that was someone out there who _saw_ was thrilling in all the ways that Harry knew were dangerous. They were balanced against each other, the desire to remove immorality offset by the simple need to have what was itching under his skin be understood. 

Immorality was currently winning out.

Not that Riddle appeared to notice the buzzing under Harry’s skin or the twitching in his fingers as they clasped his wand, he just continued to talk; still all slick and slippery, and still with a smile whose teeth scratched at Harry’s skin. “Do tell me, Harry,” he murmured, “because I want to know, what are you prepared to do to get what you want?”

“Oh,” Harry said, something finally snapping inside him, “I think I’m prepared to kill you.” In an instant, Harry was standing up and whipping around, his chair upset and his wand drawn up against the crest of Riddle’s throat.

But for all the suddenness, Riddle didn’t flinch, in fact, he merely quirked an eyebrow and gave a lazy smile, not even looking down the length of the wood, only focussing his eyes on Harry’s. They were closer now, closer than they’d ever been before whilst face to face. Just wand’s length apart. Like that, Harry could see that they were almost the same height, and without the barrier of distance, the blankness behind Riddle’s eyes was unmistakable; just endless reams of brown like the colour found in the earth-packed walls of a grave.

Still watching him, Riddle clearly couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and he even titled his head back a little further, closing his eyes when Harry pressing the tip harder into his throat. “Either do it properly, or put it away, Harry,” he said, smoothly and calmly as though, for once, he recognised the gravity of the situation, but he still couldn’t help the hint of a condescending tone that you might employ when talking to a small child. 

“Are you going to do it then?” he asked, his mouth stretching around the words as he opened his eyes and smiling properly now, “or have you realised that you really don’t want to kill me?” Harry pressed his wand harder into Riddle’s throat so that it would, at least, impair his ability to breathe comfortably. He felt Riddle swallow, and in that long, stretching second, Harry wanted to do more than put s little pressure on. He really wanted to. And plenty of people would thank him for it; declare him to be a hero even.

And he liked being a hero. 

But at the same time, he couldn’t shake off the weightiness of the way that Riddle looked at him, or his slithering words that now settled in his head. Those insidious suggestions had slinked into every wrinkle of his brain and even now they buzzed with connections yet to be made. Riddle was the first person who’d ever said out loud the things that Harry himself had only dared to think in the dead of night when he sure no one else was listening. 

“At least admit,” Riddle said, as he watched him, those eyes flickering, not with life but with the reflections of the colours in the room, “you don’t want to kill me like this, do you, Harry?” 

Riddle’s words interrupted his trail of thought, undoubtedly like they were supposed to. Almost certainly designed to throw him completely off track and get distracted the sounds and sweetness. Harry half-expected to be suddenly, and violently ambushed, but Riddle only smiled and continued to trace his features with his eyes. 

“Of course,” Riddle said, his mouth barely moving as he spoke, “this conforms to your modus operandi, but I rather think it’s time you became a little more…” he swallowed as he searched for the word, “…audacious,” he murmured, his hand raising up. Whilst holding his gaze, Riddle pushed Harry’s wand down, away from his throat, away from his entire body until the tip was pointed towards the floor. 

And he stepped into the empty space until they were practically toe-to-toe, and Harry could smell his cologne; sweet and warm, and heady in a way that made him want to lean closer. He resisted the urge, and instead focussed on fashioning his breathing into something vaguely appropriate and glaring at Riddle. After all, the ire for momentary murder had now passed, though the adrenaline of the thought still hummed in the air and buried itself further into Harry’s skin, slipping into his bloodstream and making him shift his weight from foot to foot. 

“How about you tell me how you want to do it?” Riddle murmured, licking his lips and making them shine under the lights. Another man’s saliva shouldn’t have tempted his gaze, but Harry still found himself staring for too long at Riddle’s mouth as he tried to give words to the unspoken fantasy that had been white noise in his head for a long, _long_ , time now. Harry swallowed. A small part of him knew he shouldn’t share those thoughts, but the rest was thrumming with excitement, and anticipation and an outright _need_ to reveal the darkest, most decadent part of his soul that no one else knew existed. 

“Slowly,” he said, quietly and looking into the endless blank of Riddle’s eyes in order to pretend that no one was listening to this confession. “Painfully,” he continued, “and I want to watch every second of it.” He swallowed again, keeping his eyes hooked on Riddle’s, but still seeing the movements of his throat, and still feeling how warm he was. “I want you to bleed out, whilst I sit there, knowing I could save you – but I don’t – because I want you to die.” The words reddened his cheeks and burnt his tongue as they were spoken and left a feeling he couldn’t quite describe, all over the walls of his mouth; something dirty and provocative that was probably more thrilling than it should have been.

“Death by omission,” Riddle murmured, his hand raising again, but this time resting it on the back of Harry’s neck, the fingers pressing lightly, and making his skin prickle, “I thought you were angrier than that.” His fingers moved as well, swaying with his words like a shell caught in the sea’s tide, gliding up, briefly into Harry’s hair, before sliding back around to his cheek and jawbone. 

“Then you don’t know me.” 

“Well then, you’ll have to help me get to know you, won’t you, Harry?” Riddle said, the pads of his fingers framing Harry’s jaw, they were warm, hot really and dry, pressed right into the skin. Like that, Riddle’s mouth was so obscenely close that it would only take Harry leaning forward a fraction of an inch, to turn what this was, into something a whole lot more. Without even meaning to, he found himself glancing momentarily at those lips, and swallowing hard, before flicking his eyes back up to Riddle’s. 

It was enough. 

And, just like that, Riddle’s mouth was pressed against his, and Riddle was kissing him. His mouth, warm, and firm, and ever so sweet, and Harry found himself following Riddle’s lead perfectly willingly. Just letting him ease open his mouth and taste his tongue, murmuring words Harry couldn’t really hear into his mouth. Riddle’s fingers skimming back over the nape of his neck and worked themselves into his hair, even as Harry’s stayed useless by his sides, too caught up in the moment, to care what a stupid decision this was.


End file.
